


Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow Day

by little-smartass (Linxcat)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 2am teaparty chat and cuddle, Courfeyrac is a Disaster Pan but in his defence he's very sleep deprived, Jehan is a mysterious and terrifying but easily flustered plant vigilante, M/M, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15061868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/little-smartass
Summary: They shoot a meaningful glance downwards, and Courfeyrac is confused for a moment before he looks down himself and realises, oh my god, oh mygod, he took his fucking jeans off.He took… his fucking jeans off. How could he haveforgottenthat?He's been having a very weird and now semi-flirtatious conversation with a gorgeous horticultural vigilante whilst wearing nothing but a t-shirt with ‘PAN-TASTIC’ in pink, yellow and blue letters - not too bad - and a pair of winky-face emoji boxers that Joly bought him for secret santa - soul destroying, oh god, let the earth swallow him whole.





	Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow Day

“ _The nights were mainly made_  
_for saying things that you can't say_  
_tomorrow day_ ”  
\- Do I Wanna Know, Hozier

*

It's a damp and chilly night in May, it's 2am, and Courfeyrac only notices that there's someone creeping around in his garden because he’s pantsless.

Specifically, it's because he almost falls asleep; after five hours straight of revision he starts to have trouble keeping his eyes open. His head drops forward, cheek slipping off the heel of his hand where it was propped up, and he knocks his lukewarm coffee off the corner of his desk and into his lap. It's more than enough to jolt him awake with a startled yelp - which quickly turns into furious swearing when he realises his new jeans will be ruined if he doesn't clean them _asap_.

He scrambles out of the clinging material, jogs down the stairs, and, after a brief consultation with google, attempts to blot the material with a paper towel. It has very little effect.

With a high-pitched keening that's half panic half exhausted mania, he flings the jeans into the washing machine and sets a cycle going. His phone was spared the fate of coffee carnage, thank _fuck_ , so he fires off texts to his two most adulty friends - Combeferre and Feuilly - asking for advice. It's highly unlikely that he'll hear from either of them before dawn, but there's always a chance that Feuilly’s stuck on a boring night shift or Combeferre’s been similarly ensnared by last-minute revision.

Letting out a miserable sigh, he plods into the dark kitchen and flicks on the kettle to make himself a replacement drink. He slumps over the counter and stares vacantly out of the back door window, brain sluggishly churning through the finer points of the notes that he'd been making for a presentation, before the coffee incident, and that's when he notices the light from the footpath at the end of the garden.

Initially he assumes it's a bike light and tracks its movement absently, but then it jiggles and swings around, before ascending in a way that would be highly concerning if it were attached to the front of a bicycle, and more in line with, say, someone holding a torch in their mouth whilst they scale a fence.

 _His_ fence. There's someone climbing into his garden.

The exhaustion sloughs off him immediately. He feels his heartrate tick up as adrenaline kicks in. The only reason anyone would climb into his garden at two in the morning is to break into his house, and he's home alone because Marius is staying over at Cosette’s on the other side of the city. Not that Marius would be much help if he was here, he's about as intimidating as a wet sock, but he does at least have some height on him, which might just dissuade someone standing at the other end of a dark garden. Courfeyrac is 5’6" and his only combat-related skill is the _flynning_ that he learnt in the drama module he took, and that's not much good when you don't have a big sword to wave around.

 _Har-har_ , he thinks hollowly as he creeps towards the kitchen door, mouth dry. The light is still high up, and sweeping carefully over the end of the garden as the intruder assesses the best way to get down from the fence. He should confront them whilst they're still outside - then at least he has the tactical advantage of a lockable door on his side. Yes, flinging open the back door and flicking on the outside light would likely be enough to startle any potential burglar back over the fence, and if it didn't, he would at least get a good glimpse of them before he retreated back inside and called the police.

It doesn't occur to Courfeyrac until much later that the most obvious solution would have been to turn all the lights in the house on and watch the intruder from a window, but in his defense, at the time of the break-in he'd not slept in over 24 hours.

The light beam of the torch swings around as the intruder begins to make their way down. Courfeyrac judges by the speed of the light's movement that the person is likely climbing the old gnarled tree at the end of the garden, which would be a real security hazard if this wasn't a rundown student townhouse with absolutely shit-all inside to steal. The most valuable things he can think of off the top of his head are his laptop - safely in his room - his phone - currently in his hand - and the ten year old TV in the living room with the broken volume-down button. You could maybe get some money if you flogged the sofa, but not enough to make the effort of trying to lug it over the garden fence worth it. The combined contents of his wardrobe would go for considerably more, but again - the effort-value ratio would not be in the would-be-burglar’s favour.

Perhaps he should just… go to bed and leave the intruder to their inevitable disappointment.

It's a tempting idea, though it becomes instantly less appealing when he thinks about having to harangue his landlord into actually _landlording_ if anything gets broken. No, absolutely not worth it. Plan A it is.

The torchlight has stopped moving halfway down the garden. Courfeyrac takes a few psyching-up breaths, then unlocks the back door and flings it open in one quick movement, slapping his other hand against the outside switch. The garden is immediately illuminated in weak white light, enough to easily display the intruder.

They're not what Courfeyrac expects. He's not sure exactly what he was expecting - someone in a balaclava with a black and white striped shirt and a swag bag, perhaps - but it certainly isn't what he sees.

What he sees is a person about his age of indeterminable gender, pale and frozen in the light, skinny, swamped in a huge flowery cardigan. Their long auburn hair is disheveled, and they have enough freckles that at this distance they almost camouflage their other facial features - though Courfeyrac notes that even the swarm of freckles can't hide a pair of incredible cheekbones, and a jawline to die for.

So… it's possible that he's checking out the burglar. Like this kid hasn't just scrambled over his fence in the early hours of the morning. In his defense, they're _gorgeous_ , and he hasn't slept in a very long time.

The freckles also cannot hide their expression; against all rationality, the gorgeous intruder is _glaring_ at him, like it's Courfeyrac who's just broken into their garden. Combined with the twig caught in their hair and the leaves stuck to their cardigan, they look almost feral, skin glowing in an otherworldly way, their narrowed eyes daring Courfeyrac to make them leave.

They stand in silence for several moments, just staring at each other. The intruder’s expression does not waver.

 _If this is how I die_ , Courfeyrac thinks distantly, _murdered in the middle of the night by some terrifying wood-elf in an awful cardigan with-_ he glances down at the intruder’s hand to see… tiny secateurs? _-a bladed weapon, I'm good with it._

“Uh,” he says, because he is apparently the pinnacle of eloquence, “What… what are you doing?”

The intruder’s face goes a very painful-looking shade of red, and the illusion of the supernatural is shattered. To their credit, they lift their chin and say, “Saving your flowering dogwood,” as if it's obvious and Courfeyrac is a total moron for being confused. It's said confidently enough that it _almost_ cancels out the blushing.

It explains the secateurs, anyway.

Courfeyrac must look confused because the bizarre be-cardiganed plant enthusiast gestures to a large bush - or small tree? It's difficult to tell with how overgrown the garden is - with what he can just make out is rather pretty pinkish-white blossom.

“Okay,” Courfeyrac says, humouring them partially because he's so incredibly sleep deprived, but also partly because they're intriguing him more by the moment, “Why?”

The intruder sighs, clearly exasperated, “This,” they say, stabbing a finger at what looks to Courfeyrac like an overgrown patch of grass, “Is perennial rye. It is killing,” they move their finger back over to the first bush, “Your dogwood. You should never plant them near each other, ever.”

“Is it rare?” Courfeyrac asks, still confused about the intruder’s motivations, “The dogwood, I mean?”

Their righteous expression falters a little, “Well… no, not really, they're pretty common, I just… I see your dogwood every day from the footpath on my walk back from campus, and I realised what was going on, and… well, I loved the colour so much, I couldn't just let it _die_ , so I thought…”

They trail off, gesturing vaguely with the secateurs. Courfeyrac smiles sympathetically, “Sounded like a good idea at the time?” he ventures.

Freckleface smiles wryly back, and Courfeyrac’s heart skips. They have a _very_ nice smile.

“Anything sounds like a good idea when you're walking back from the library at at 2am, and I live on the next street, so...” they sigh, running a hand down their face. They click off their torch with a very weary air and tuck their secateurs into a pocket in the voluminous horror of a cardigan, “Sorry,” they say, gesturing behind them with a thumb, “I'll, uh-”

“You could have just, like, knocked on our door or something,” Courfeyrac blurts.

They blink, “Sorry?”

“I mean,” he clears his throat, “You could have just knocked on our door and told us about the plant, you didn't have to climb our fence and sneak in.”

“I'm not sure many people would react well to some weirdo turning up at their door and ranting about how they've done their gardening wrong,” they say, that dry smile reappearing. Courfeyrac likes that smile a lot more than the glare.

“I don't know,” he says in a tone that he hopes is light and as non-creepy as possible, “Maybe if that weirdo was as cute as you.”

He scrutinises their face and body language as best he can from the doorway for any indication that he's made them uncomfortable, but after the initial fleeting eyebrow lift of surprise, their smile widens into a pleased, if slightly bashful grin. He takes that as a good sign to move a little further.

“Do… do you wanna come in? You can tell me more about how I'm doing gardening all wrong. Must be kind of chilly out there.”

“I don't know,” they say as they pick their way up the totally overgrown path, a teasing lilt in their voice, “ _Is_ it chilly?”

They shoot a meaningful glance downwards, and Courfeyrac is confused for a moment before he looks down himself and realises, oh my god, oh my _god_ , he took his fucking jeans off.

He took… his fucking jeans off. How could he have _forgotten_ that?

He's been having a very weird and now semi-flirtatious conversation with a gorgeous horticultural vigilante whilst wearing nothing but a t-shirt with ‘PAN-TASTIC’ in pink, yellow and blue letters - not too bad - and a pair of winky-face emoji boxers that Joly bought him for secret santa - soul destroying, oh god, let the earth swallow him whole.

It takes considerable willpower to fight the desperate urge to curl up in a tiny ball of mortification right there on the doorstep. It gets a little easier when he finally dares to look up and sees freckleface only a few feet away, grinning in a way that's just a bit too delighted to be a sympathetic wince, but is at least trying. They're even more attractive up close. They also seem to be taking him up on his offer to come inside, as they're watching him expectantly with their hands tucked in their cardigan’s big pockets.

That's a good sign, he supposes. The awful boxers haven't put them off.

“I'm Courfeyrac,” he says, stepping aside and swinging his arm out with a flourish so they can walk through past him.

“Jehan,” they say, smiling as they step into the kitchen. They smell of wet earth, from climbing around the garden, and something kind of smokey, like incense. They make an odd combination but not unpleasant, and probably way better than how _he_ smells, he thinks, surreptitiously giving his shirt a sniff.

Courfeyrac reaches for the lightswitch and Jehan - who he could have sworn was not paying attention - whips their head around and holds out a hand.

“What?” Courfeyrac asks blankly.

“Just - leave it. The light in here is perfect, I like it.”

Courfeyrac withdraws his hand and looks around, not entirely sure what Jehan means. The streetlamps are casting a dull yellowish glow through the living room and kitchen windows, leaving the space lit sufficiently to see most things without difficulty, but reading any small text would take a lot of squinting. One light sends a bright rectangle of yellow sprawling across the threadbare living room rug. Courfeyrac imagines it being like sunlight, imagines sticking his hand into it and feeling heat on his skin. He imagines how it might land on Jehan's wonderful cheekbones and long nose.

So maybe there is something to be said about leaving the light off.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He asks, wondering if it's possible to be a bad host to someone who was trespassing on _your_ property.

Jehan tucks their hands into their sleeves absently as they take in the room, “Tea, please,” they say distractedly.

“I think the only tea we have is peppermint,” Courfeyrac warns. Jehan shrugs vaguely, indicating that it's not a problem.

Courfeyrac walks to the other end of the thin galley kitchen to flick the kettle back on, trying not to feel self-conscious about his lack of clothing. He wouldn't say he's a particularly modest person when it comes to showing skin - but that's when it's on _his_ terms. Being accidentally very undressed is different. His problem is solved when he notices a blanket thrown over the back of the sofa; he grabs it and slings it around his waist.

“So,” he says, trotting back into the kitchen and smiling as he watches Jehan closely examine their fridge magnets, “I've not heard of the name _Jehan_ before.”

Jehan straightens up slowly, playing with their sleeves, and glances at Courfeyrac over their shoulder, “It's something I'm trying at the moment, to see if it's _me_ , to see if I want to keep it. It's more gender-neutral than Jean.”

The look on Jehan's face, half turned away, is similar to what it was when Courfeyrac had first seen them out in the garden. There's a fierce kind of defiance flaring in their eyes. _I dare you to make me leave._

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac says, rolling the word slowly off his tongue, “I like it, it has a sort of musical feel.”

The kettle boils. He moves gently past Jehan to reach it, giving them a chance to process. He hears them exhale a low sigh, and the tension bleeds quietly away.

Courfeyrac admits to himself that even if Jehan downs their tea like a shot and leaves immediately, revision is not likely to happen again at least until he's had some decent sleep, so he dumps the coffee granules out of the mug he'd prepared earlier and reaches for the hot chocolate instead. He flicks open the cupboard above the kettle to confirm that the only tea they have in the house is, indeed, the peppermint stuff Marius bought to try and impress Cosette before he learnt that she too is a coffee heathen, and because it's something _Marius_ bought it's on the top shelf. Normally this wouldn't be an issue, as Courfeyrac is well practised in clambering onto the kitchen surfaces, but it's something he's a little reluctant to do in boxers and a blanket he's wearing like a towel.

His hesitation must be more evident than he realises because Jehan huffs a laugh and says, “Let me,” in a soft voice. Despite the fact that there can't be more than two inches difference in height between them, Jehan's limbs must be proportionally longer, as they reach the tea only having to stand on their tiptoes. They press together at shoulder and hip as Jehan drops back onto their heels. Their fingers brush as Jehan passes him the box of teabags. Each point of contact is warm and excruciatingly, mortifyingly delightful.

“My hero,” Courfeyrac coos, swooning back onto the counter, and Jehan responds by dipping into a mock curtsy, holding out the ends of their cardigan like a skirt.

It's absolutely adorable, totally charming, and oh shit, Courfeyrac thinks with a helpless grin, this is terrible, that cardigan is so hideous and he almost doesn't care?

As they shuffle over to the sofa, he reflects that he would very much like to kiss Jehan - and do a bunch of other things, but maybe when they know each other better - and he wishes somewhat bleakly that this could be any time other than two in the morning when he hasn't slept and his mouth feels like he's eaten pocket lint. He probably stinks too, and his hair is definitely a mess, and this is so unfair, why’d he have to meet such an enticing person at a point where he's so _profoundly_ unattractive?

“So,” he says, sitting down and carefully arranging the blanket across his lap, “Tell me all about how terrible my garden is.”

Jehan folds themself into the other corner of the sofa, curling up around their mug of tea that they hold pressed to their chin when they're not sipping at it. They smirk and raise their eyebrows at him, “I'm not sure how much information you're capable of retaining right now,” they say, “No offense, but when was the last time you _slept_?”

“Probably about twenty six hours ago,” Courfeyrac says brightly, “But I have drunk _so_ much caffeine, I'm good, c’mon, try me.”

Jehan looks dubious, “Alright, what were the two plants I mentioned outside?”

“Ryegrass and flowering dogwood,” he says promptly, and enjoys the expression of genuine surprise it brings on Jehan's face.

“I'm gonna be honest - I did _not_ expect you to get that.”

“Told you I was good,” then something occurs to him, “If you didn't think I'd retain any of this information, why did you agree to come in?”

For some reason, Jehan flushes again, “You, uh - you seemed nice. And I like meeting new people.”

 _Nice_ , Courfeyrac thinks, squirming happily inwardly. They've known each other five minutes, mostly from opposite ends of a garden, and Jehan thought he was nice enough to want to meet properly! He doesn't push it though. He's spooked people before with his enthusiasm, “So, tell me how terrible my garden is.”

Jehan drapes their arm along the top of the sofa and rests their cheek on their fist, tilting their head endearingly as they study him, as if drinking tea in a total stranger’s living room in the early hours of the morning is totally normal. Maybe it is for them, but Courfeyrac lost his ability to judge normality around the twenty-hours-no-sleep mark, “Okay, how much do you know about gardening?”

“Absolutely nothing! The garden was like that when we got here in September, we're only renting.”

“So you're a student?” Jehan asks, eyes lighting up in interest.

Courfeyrac snorts and gestures at himself, “What, my complete inability to operate healthily didn't give it away?”

“I didn't want to jump to conclusions,” Jehan says, mouth twitching, “You might have just been, you know, a mess.”

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac says flatly, but it's kind of fair, “Yeah, I'm third year Law and Political Science.”

“Oh,” Jehan almost spills their tea in their eagerness, “My housemate studies law! Though… I'm not sure if you could call it _studying_ , it's more like just aggressively procrastinating on graduation. He's basically a perpetual undergrad.”

Courfeyrac grins, recognition stirring, “I think I know who you mean… twice as tall and twice as wide as me, unironic manbun, beard, amazing clothes?”

Jehan claps their hands and almost sloshes peppermint tea out of their mug, “Yes! That's Bahorel!”

“Ah, he's great! I went out drinking with him after exams last year and nearly _died_. I think he actually carried me home - like the whole way in a fireman’s lift?”

“That sounds like him,” Jehan says, grinning, “Small world.”

With the combination of the caffeine from earlier slowly wearing off and the soporific effects of drinking hot cocoa, Courfeyrac can actually feel his brain slowing down. It had been his intention, but this weird early morning tea party is too nice to end so soon. Something about talking quietly in the dark at 2am makes everything seem kind of magical.

“You're a student too, right? What are you studying?” Courfeyrac asks in an attempt to re-kickstart his brain, “No, let me guess - botany?”

“Good try,” Jehan shakes his head, “But nope.”

Courfeyrac copies Jehan’s tilted head pose. They’re most likely in a creative or humanities field - you don’t tend to get many mathematicians or civil engineers climbing trees in awful lumpy floral knitwear - but he knows both drama students and artists, and neither quite fit of what he's seen of Jehan. Musician, maybe? Languages are a possibility, Marius knows a lot of language students and Courfeyrac could imagine Jehan fitting in with them, though there's a special level of eccentricity and romanticism required to climb a fence in the dark to save a pretty plant, so he veers back towards his original line of thought. Creative arts and humanities, hmm. He could see Jehan reciting Shakespeare and getting super into it - not the acting, just the words - and… yes, getting emotional about books, he can picture that too.

“Literature,” Courfeyrac says confidently, and is rewarded as Jehan's face lights up.

“Yes! Lit and creative writing,” Jehan raises their eyebrows, “You're pretty good at reading people.”

Courfeyrac shrugs, trying to not look as pleased as he feels with the compliment, “I'm a people person,” he says, then the rest of his words are lost to a sequence of yawns, “That's really cool though. That's so much cooler than my degree.”

“You should go to sleep,” Jehan says, setting their half-empty mug down on the coffee table and shifting like they're intending to stand.

“Don't wanna,” he says around another yawn, and he hopes the childishness is endearing rather than just weird. What he really wants to say is _please stay_ but that would be literally impossible to not make weird.

Jehan gives him a considering look, lips pursed, then scoots down the sofa so they're pressed shoulder to shoulder. They grab the spare blanket off the side of the sofa, pick their mug back up, and settle in comfortably at his side, like they're planning on being there a while. Courfeyrac isn't really sure what's going on here any more; asking a stranger in for a hot drink is probably _just_ about within the bounds of social convention, even if it is 2am, but this is practically cuddling. He's had a few one-night-stands with people who were effectively strangers at the time, however just quietly sitting together fully dressed - in relative terms, anyway - feels so much more _intimate_.

It's actually really nice. He closes his eyes and immediately feels the insistent tug behind his eyelids trying to drag him into sleep, and it takes a lot more effort to open them again. They both look down into their respective mugs.

“Sorry for trespassing in your garden,” Jehan mumbles, “You're right, I should have just knocked on your door.”

“S’okay, you can just give me your number to pay me back,” Courfeyrac says, because apparently his inhibitions have dropped significantly, and then when his brain kicks in he adds quickly, “Uh, that's a joke, you don't-”

“I'll give you my number if you'll let me take you on a proper date,” Jehan says. Courfeyrac turns to them in surprise, and although their voice had sounded confident, their cheeks are red and they can't meet his eyes.

A smile spreads slowly across Courfeyrac’s face, “You mean this doesn't count as a proper date? I don't invite _everyone_ who hops my back fence in for tea.”

They snort, glancing at him with a barely suppressed grin, “You get many people hopping your fence?”

“ _So_ many. The public footpath practically diverts through the garden, you would not believe. We should fit a toll gate on our back door, we'd make a _fortune_.”

Jehan hums, amused, and Courfeyrac realises he never properly answered their proposition, “I'll take you up on that date though. Maybe we can go to a garden centre to pick up some new plants, fix up the garden.”

He'd suggested it mostly as a joke, but he imagines getting to see Jehan's eyes light up as they choose flowers and shrubs and whatever the hell else nice-looking gardens ought to have, he imagines getting hot and sweaty in the sun as they weed and plant, the satisfaction of a job well done as they clear and reorder the small jungle, the lobster-like shade of red Jehan's pale skin will inevitably turn, drinking lemonade with ice and watching droplets of condensation drip down Jehan's fingers. He imagines Marius being conveniently absent all day.

Honestly? It sounds pretty good.

“Maybe,” Jehan says, shrugging, “But I think I can probably manage something a little more exciting.”

Courfeyrac is willing to trust them on this, mostly because it feels like his brain is slowly grinding to a halt. His eyes are starting to ache, even in the low light, so he closes them, and lets his head, suddenly so heavy, droop onto Jehan's shoulder. Jehan shifts a little and Courfeyrac feels them rest their cheek against the top of his head. Their hair brushes against his temple, tickling, and he thinks he can feel the sharp point of a leaf digging into him, but now he's let his head drop the prospect of moving is suddenly exhausting.

“Tell me about plants, Jehan,” Courfeyrac mumbles, yawning widely and curling his legs up underneath him. He feels Jehan’s cheek move as they smile.

*

The next thing he's aware of is the persistent buzz of his phone against his stomach, the dulcet tones of the Crazy Frog - thanks Bossuet - dragging him from blissful unconsciousness. He grabs it, taps the screen, and brings it to his ear entirely on autopilot.

“Mmnnghh?”

“ _Vanish_.”

Courfeyrac cracks one eye open. The room is bright with daylight. He immediately shuts it again and covers his face with his free hand, “Wha’?”

It's Combeferre on the phone, his brain supplies. Combeferre keeps talking in his deep, patient voice, “It's a stain remover. You texted me at 2am panicking about your jeans - if you bring them over I'll help you with them.”

“Sounds good,” he mumbles. His mouth is super dry and tastes like something fuzzy has been sleeping in it all night. He stretches out his legs, wincing as his knees crack, and tries to open his eyes again.

Shit. Nope. Still bright! Abort. He slaps his hand back over his eyes.

“Also,” Combeferre says gravely, “I think we need to stage another intervention with Enjolras.”

“Oh god,” Courfeyrac groans, drawing the noise out long and sighing, “Has he locked himself in his room again, like exam season last year?”

“Barricaded himself in with textbooks more like,” Combeferre confirms, “I haven't seen him in three days and I'm pretty certain he's living entirely off dry cereal and coffee grounds.”

Courfeyrac sighs, running his free hand down his face, then back up and through his hair. He needs a shower.

“Maybe we could get Grantaire over, and then use their sexual tension as a battering ram to break the door down,” Courfeyrac mutters.

Combeferre snorts, “As tempting as that sounds, I'd like to get my security deposit back, thanks.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Get out of bed, and I'll see you in an hour. Don't forget your jeans.”

Courfeyrac is initially offended at the presumptuousness of the ‘get out of bed’, but then remembers he started the conversation unable to form full words, so maybe it's fair, “If you have coffee and food ready I can make that half an hour.”

“Deal. See you then.”

He hangs up and drops the phone back on his stomach. Slowly, head feeling like it's full of cotton wool, he prises his eyes open. After a few moments contemplating the ceiling he realises abruptly that he's not in his bedroom, in his bed, he's… on the living room sofa? No wonder it's bright. He levers himself into a sitting position and takes a minute or so to sit with his head in his hands, waiting for the sleep-fuzziness in his mind to recede. How long has it been since he last slept? At the ripe old age of 22 he is much too old for multiple all-nighters. Revision or not, he needs to cut that crap out.

“Morning!” Marius chirps, the approaching sound of footsteps indicating his entrance to the living room. Courfeyrac grunts in response, kneading his temples.

“Why were you sleeping downstairs?” Marius asks, sweeping past Courfeyrac into the kitchen. When he doesn't get an immediate response, he carries on talking, “I just got back from Cosette’s, and we had such a good time! We-”

Courfeyrac tunes out the words, letting the cheerful cadence of Marius’ voice gently lift his mood. Marius is usually pretty friendly, if awkward - Courfeyrac wouldn't be sharing a house with him if he wasn't - but being around Cosette brings out this adorable gregarious chatterbox side of him that Courfeyrac always enjoys. By the time Marius has finished detailing every moment of their little wholesome sleepover, Courfeyrac feels almost human again. He staggers to his feet as Marius leaves the kitchen with a bowl of cereal.

“You've got…” Marius gestures towards his cheek, frowning around the spoon in his mouth, “On your face - your hand too, it looks like… marker?”

“What?” Courfeyrac looks down at his hands - and stares.

His left palm is covered in smudged inky shapes that look almost like a string of numbers. He must have smeared them onto his face when he was hiding from the sun. At first, he thinks the mess is his own doing, some madness in the exhaustion of his late night revision that he only hazily remembers. And then Marius says, “Je… Jehan Prouvaire?”

“What?” Courfeyrac says again, king of eloquence as usual. The word Jehan echoes and bounces around his brain, like it's important, but it's moving too fast for him to catch.

Marius reaches out with his free hand and takes Courfeyrac by the wrist, turning his hand over. There, on the back of his hand, are the words _Jehan Prouvaire_ in a loopy script slightly distorted by the topography of his skin, and along his wrist and forearm, like an afterthought, it says _Ask me about plants_. There's a crudely scribbled flower on each of his knuckles.

 _Jehan_. The memories of the early morning intruder suddenly flood back into the forefront his mind. They'd been there the whole time, he'd just dismissed the concept of a beautiful elf-person hiding in his garden as a weirdly vivid dream.

But it wasn't. Jehan is real. Jehan wore an ugly cardigan with pockets big enough to hold a torch and a pair of small secateurs. Jehan climbed his fence in the early hours of the morning to try and save a dying plant. Jehan drank peppermint tea and sort-of-cuddled and sort-of-flirted and definitely asked him on a date, right there on the sofa.

Jehan must have left when Courfeyrac fell asleep. Must have eased him off their shoulder and snuck out the back door and back over the fence - because Courfeyrac went and fell asleep on them. Oh, god, it was probably inevitable but it's still totally mortifying to think about. He prays fervently that he didn't snore or drool.

On the plus side, he realises looking down at his palm, even if he _did_  snore or drool, Jehan still left him their number. They must have held his hand for a long time to write all that stuff on him, too. And they weren't put off by the awful emoji boxers.

“What does it say?” Marius asks, gesturing at Courfeyrac’s palm with his spoon.

“It's a mobile number,” Courfeyrac tugs on his friend’s arm and holds his hand out, “And you, Marius, with your super language skills, are going to help me decipher it.”

“I speak _German_ , not… whatever this is!” Marius protests, but sighs and dutifully examines the smudges.

They piece together what they're fairly confident are the correct numbers and Courfeyrac types them into his phone, one by one.

“Whose number is it?” Marius asks.

Courfeyrac makes a shushing motion as he hits dial and brings the phone to his ear, “Jehan Prouvaire, obviously,” he says, indicating the name on the back of his hand, “They broke into our garden last night.”

“Wha- _what_?” Marius blurts, “And then they broke into the house and... left you their number? Written on your arm?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes as the phone rings, “No, I invited them in.”

“To our _house_?” Marius is still bewildered, half-eaten cereal forgotten in his hand, but Courfeyrac frantically shushes him when the phone is answered on the other end.

“Hello?” says a familiar voice. Courfeyrac’s heart rate picks up and he can't help a big grin spreading across his face.

“Tell me about plants, Jehan,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> see here - littlesmartart.tumblr.com/post/175280392342 - for my art for this fic!


End file.
